


Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell is the biggest fanboy in the universe

by Frostfire



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Masturbation, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-21
Updated: 2005-07-21
Packaged: 2017-12-23 16:40:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frostfire/pseuds/Frostfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cameron has some wants.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lieutenant Colonel Cameron Mitchell is the biggest fanboy in the universe

Cameron…has a problem.

He _tried_. He worked and slaved and fucking almost _sacrificed himself_ for them, for this, and now just. This…total lack of reward.

He knows that he’s probably—almost certainly—being overdramatic when he thinks that he’s never been this disappointed. But that’s how it feels.

And it’s a problem, it’s a _problem_ because he’s having a hard time motivating himself to do anything but go after SG-1 and try—try _pathetically_ —to convince them to come back to the SGC. He can’t seriously focus on anything but them. All those other candidates…well, if he’s honest with himself, his personal biases may have had a little to do with how utterly hopeless they all seemed.

A little.

So now he’s less than a day into his new assignment and already totally frustrated. Bad attitude, bad, _bad_ attitude, and he knows it but he can’t make himself shape up. He keeps remembering the general’s question—what’s his secret vice, his Kryptonite? _I have an unhealthy fixation on all the members of SG-1, sir._

It’s—so, so true.

He’s at his hotel after his first day—first few hours, anyway—and just…so _fucking_ depressed. He thought—he was so looking _forward_ to working with Dr. Jackson, with Lieutenant Colonel Carter, with, Teal’c—earlier today, his only regret was that he couldn’t work with General O’Neill as well. He thought—God. He couldn’t wait to point out an ancient text or code in front of Dr. Jackson and watch as that brilliant mind just—shut everything out and _focused_ , until the problem was solved. And Carter—just as brilliant but less antisocial in her problem-solving—he wanted so much to be involved in her work. And Teal’c. God. If he was half the man—half the _warrior_ , and doesn’t he envy the Jaffa for being able to call himself that in all seriousness—he could die happy.

And…well. General O’Neill is General O’Neill. That’s less of a disappointment, obviously, but…it’s still there, leftover from earlier today and now just added on to the list.

Dumb. Getting hopes up that high is never, ever smart. You never get exactly what you want.

He falls down on the bed with a sigh, stripped down to his boxers and chilly in the hotel’s air conditioning.

God, he _wants_ them. There isn’t room in his head for anything else.

He’s never going to sleep at this rate.

And he really has to stop pretending he’s not hard.

He fights it for about thirty seconds before sliding a hand down his body and into his boxers. In a way, it’s useful, because he could really use a distraction—if he can’t think about anything but SG-1, he might as well try not thinking at all. The first touch pulls his breath in sharp, makes him think that maybe that’ll actually work. He’s not focusing on anything but this for now.

It’s been way too long since he got laid—God, she was nice, though, what was her name? Debbie, Denise? Another black mark for the General— _can’t remember the names of the women he sleeps with, never calls afterward—_ he suppresses hysterical laughter and tries to focus on the memory of thrusting into her, her body against his, short sweaty blonde hair against his neck—he shifts some of the details, making the fantasy even better. Her teeth biting into his neck…she could clench around him, he’s always loved it when women do that. She arches, pushing her breasts into his hands…she lifts her head, gasping—

And he realizes his fantasy woman has morphed into Samantha Carter and almost comes on the spot.

Jesus. _Jesus_. It has to be because he was thinking about the team, because he doesn’t—he _can’t_ think of her that way. And he doesn’t. Aside from the usual noticing that she’s an attractive woman, he’s never—he never—

His hand is still moving, hips thrusting up into his grip and jolts of pleasure messing with his ability to think, and she’s still hovering on the edge of his thoughts, ready and open and pulling him back down to her body, white skin and wide gray eyes and oh, Christ.

He knew he had an unhealthy fixation on SG-1, but this is beyond unhealthy and into frightening.

And then, on the tail end of a wave of sensation, comes a sudden bone-chilling thought—he banishes Carter from his mental porn video, which is really, really difficult, but he _needs_ to prove himself wrong on this—and deliberately imagines Daniel Jackson there instead. 

Naked, sweaty, gasping, and very, very male. Flat, muscled chest. Definite erection sliding against Cameron’s, large male hands slipping down to cup his ass—

Cameron’s head goes back, and he can hear his groan echoing through the hotel room.

Oh, _fuck_.

He—this is _perverted_ , it’s _wrong_ , he needs to stop—

But his brain isn’t listening to him, is just moving the fantasy right along. His legs fall apart, involuntarily, on the hotel bed, and the position just makes the fantasy that much more _real_ , and he has to drag in air and try not to come while picturing Daniel Jackson getting ready to fuck him.

 _Jesus_.

He needs to—

No. Bad idea. Stop now—or at least bring Debbie or Denise or Denile or what _ever_ the fuck her name was right back where she belongs. Or some other women. Someone brunette. Asian, maybe—

But he has to check. He has to _know_. And next up is Teal’c, huge and dark and all he can really think of is how much he’d _weigh_ , on top of Cameron, pressing him down into the bed, hard in more places than just the obvious, and so good so _good_ —

He comes.

Eventually, he opens his eyes. The hotel room ceiling stares back at him, white and blank and screaming _your ultimate sexual fantasy has just become a bisexual orgy with a fellow officer, a top alien official, and a linguistic and archaeological genius! Are you out of your mind?_

Maybe…yes.

His hand is sticky.

And he knows, he _knows_ , he still isn’t going to be able to keep himself from trying as hard as he possibly can to get Carter, Jackson, and Teal’c back onto SG-1.

He can still hear the general asking him what his Kryptonite is.

He is so incredibly fucked.


End file.
